


The White Spiders

by TheBritishBourbon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Caring John, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Injured Sherlock, Post-The Empty Hearse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBritishBourbon/pseuds/TheBritishBourbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes on a case where it seems the men he stopped on his hiatus have returned, but when he discovers some mysterious messages he realises this might be someone much more dangerous. set between TEH and SOT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

It had just turned January, and the remnants of a harsh winter still clung to the window panes of 221B Baker Street in the form of snow. It had been Sherlock’s first Christmas back at Baker Street since before his….time away. He had never been one for Christmas, and yet it was nice to be spending it with John and Mrs Hudson and others, instead of sitting in a cramped hotel room in someplace in Europe.

Now he was alone again, sat at the kitchen table conducting an experiment on a human ear. It wasn’t the most engrossing of experiments but it was passing the time. Sherlock knew that if he waited, there was sure to be some sort of New Year murder or something.

“Yoo Hoo!” Mrs Hudson appeared at the kitchen door, cup of tea in hand. “Brought you a cup of tea, I thought you might be cold up here.” She placed it next to Sherlock. He didn’t reply and just continued to examine the ear lobe under his microscope. Mrs Hudson started milling around his flat, straightening up things a little.   
 “Where’s John today?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope.

“John, dear.”

“Oh, err, he’s going to some sort of couples’ thing tonight with Molly and…….” Sherlock frowned in concentration.

“Tom?”

“Him. Said that they had to go shopping.” the last word was said with revulsion. Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly. She could tell when Sherlock was lonely.

“Do you want to play Cluedo dear?”

But before Sherlock could answer his phone made the ‘ping!’ of a text alert.

_‘Body found. Belgravia. Coming? GL’_

Sherlock smiled, already out of his chair. “Lestrade’s found a body. Finally!” texting Lestrade back asking for the address, he took the stairs two at a time. “Should be back later!” he called to Mrs Hudson.

“Be careful dear!” She called back, finding herself suddenly alone in a freezing cold flat. Knowing she had to do it and not wanting to put it off, Mrs Hudson tentatively took hold of the dish which held the human ear, and scurried quickly to the bin, then stopped. She was quite sure that you couldn’t just throw human body parts on rubbish tips.

“Oh, I’m going to have to call Molly,” Mrs Hudson could not search through all of Sherlock’s things in time to find a safe place to dispose of the ear in time, it would start decomposing. And she was _not_ putting it in the fridge. “That silly boy!”

                                                                              ***

As Irene Adler’s house had been, the site of the body was a grand townhouse, with a fancy stone façade outside and an inside just as sumptuous. Sherlock took in all of this as Lestrade led him up the large staircase and into the room with the body.  Police and forensic officers milled around outside and in, and the scene was decorated with police tape. It was a living room, set out with upholstered sofas, a fireplace and a coffee table. As Sherlock first set his eyes the corpse, he felt a frown come upon his face. There was something about this that was familiar.

It was a man, flat out on his back, arms thrown out on either side of him. The man looked as he had in life; expensive Savile Row suit, perfectly clipped nails, neatly arranged auburn hair, but then there was a tinge to this all in the style of death. The skin too pale, too sunken, showing days of decay. And then there were the bullet holes. Three in the shape of a triangle, grotesquely puckered into the man’s skin. One lay on the left of his torso, just above his hip, and the second in the exact same position on the right. The final went directly through his forehead.

Sherlock quickly surveyed the room, taking in every minute detail. Then returning to the corpse examined the man’s body once more.

“So, what have you got?” Lestrade asked him once he had arisen from his examination. As Sherlock removed the forensic gloves he had put on earlier, he stated. “Well I think it’s safe to say he wasn’t murdered here.”

Lestrade nodded his agreement. “Yeah, no blood splatters, we get it.”

“Look at his trousers, there’s grass stains on the knees. This man is a banker, without a happy family or kids to play with; there’s no other reason why he’d have grass stains on a Savile Row suit other than that he’s been dragged. But why would they move him?”

Lestrade took note of Sherlock’s deductions, listening intently.

“Maybe they wanted to stage it? Make it look like he was murdered here?”

“Well they haven’t done a very good job, have they?” Sherlock scorned.

Lestrade sighed, “Alright, what else?”

“He’s a banker, that much is clear by his tie, but he’s also a drunk. His driver’s license in his pocket puts his age at thirty seven, but from the premature wrinkles he looks much older.  From the current state of the economy it is certain that this has developed from stress, plus the fact that he is in enormous debt. And what would that lead to in a man whose wife has left him and taken most of their money with her? Alcohol! The effects of it can be smelt upon his body under that of rotting flesh, and in his teeth.”

“His teeth?”

“Hmm, they’re rotting and yellow. I can’t say that would be a lifestyle choice.”

“Hang on, how do you know about his wife?”

“Ex wife. He had an unhappy marriage that terminated a couple of years ago. He has an old photograph of her still kept in his wallet; he still loves her, but she hates him, because of his affair. He also has a photo of his mistress, now his current girlfriend whose spending his money on whatever it is the female sex purchases. The relationship is not a happy one. His suit is old; he’s not bothered about clothes. He’s more concerned about spending the money on alcohol and his gambling. Plus he’s also got to pay his rent, and that’s not cheap.”

“Gambling?”

“Yes, I found a membership card for a popular club in his jacket pocket. We can only assume this is where his debt has arisen from. Take a look at the invoices on his coffee table, lots of large sums owed to wealthy men.”

“Hang on; if he’s a drunk, couldn’t he have obtained the grass stains from simply falling over when inebriated?”

“The club that he attends almost everyday is on a direct path from his flat which does not pass any parks or grassed areas. Plus the pattern of the stains points to him being dragged.”

“Yes but how do you know he would always go to that club?”

“I don’t. But a man of his position would never let anyone see him _that_ drunk out and about would he? No, he would begin with a game of gambling and a few drinks, and then would continue his alcoholic party at his flat. Look in his bin there; it’s full of empty bottles.”

“Well, I suppose you’ve got a point.”

“Hmm probably. Now, I need to see the hall.”

                                                                             ***

For five minutes Sherlock examined the floorboards of the stairs and the hall, officers getting out his way uncomfortably as he looked for clues. Lestrade stood awkwardly near the main door, waiting for his consulting detective to finish. It wasn’t until Donovan swaggered through the doorway, and stood next to Lestrade, arms crossed and hatred plain on her face, staring down at Sherlock.

“You looking for your humanity down there, Freak?”

Sherlock arose from his work, taking his scarf out of his pocket and putting it on swiftly. “Ah, Sally.” He glanced at her, “Disappointing night last night I see.”

Before she could reply, her face contorted even more with anger, Sherlock turned to Lestrade, “I’m done here Lestrade, it’s almost impossible to see what could have been promising evidence under the footprints of all your officers. But I can tell you you’re looking for a man, size twelve feet with quite a large gait.”

“Right, thanks.” Lestrade followed Sherlock out of the house and into the dreary day, noting down Sherlock’s words in his notebook. “Listen, Sherlock….” He started, but Sherlock was already gone, footsteps crunching on the icy ground.

                                                                              ***

As soon as Sherlock returned to 221B, he threw his coat and scarf onto the sofa and sat at his desk, pulling something out of his jacket pocket as he did so. He really shouldn’t have hidden evidence from Lestrade, but something was agitating him about this case, and the Police would be a hindrance he could not deal with. As the Black Lotus had done, this murderer had left a token, a warning. And Sherlock had no doubt as to whom it was for. The token was a small, white spider made out of strong card. The white was tainted, however, with the blood of the banker.

Without hesitation he dialled Mycroft’s number on his phone.

_“What is it Sherlock? I’m on my way to an important meeting with the Prime Minister.”_

“The prime minister can wait, Mycroft, I have something that might interest you.”

_“What?”_

“You remember the killer in Germany; Jacob Woodley?”

_“Of course. You put him in jail.”_

“Well it looks like he has a fan.”

_“I’m sorry?”_

“A body was found today murdered in Woodley’s signature style. And the murderer left a message.  You remember Sebastian Moran?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

A john climbed the stairs of 221B the next morning, he could hear the voice of Sherlock and…. _’is that Mycroft?’_ Knocking quickly on the door and letting himself in he was greeted with the two brothers seated in the armchairs in front of the fire. Mycroft sat, as composed as ever, in John’s armchair, right hand resting on his umbrella. Sherlock sat in his armchair, smoking and looking pensive.

“Hello, John.” He greeted, looking him up and down. Mycroft did the same. It was really unsettling when they did that. “You didn’t enjoy the risotto.”

John took a deep breath through his nose before answering. “No, I did. Really.”

“No you didn’t.”

John ignored him, turning to Mycroft. “Mycroft, good to see you.” He lied.

“Ah, john.” The elder Holmes brother rose from his chair. “Good to see you’ve forgiven my brother.” It had been the fist time since Sherlock had returned that John had seen Mycroft, though he had scarcely seen him before then, after Sherlock’s ‘death’.

“Hmm well, you know; got pushed into it a bit by someone.” Sherlock smirked from his seat at John’s reference to the underground bomb incident.

Mycroft smiled his unsettling smile. “Hmm, yes, well it’s good to see you two together again. How’s Mary?” Sherlock glared up at his brother. He knew exactly what game Mycroft was playing.

“She’s fine, yeah. All go on the wedding planning at the moment!”

Mycroft looked at his brother, smiling once again. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Sherlock puffed smoke in his direction, lip slightly curled. An uncomfortable silence followed, John frowning at the brothers’ behaviour, which was promptly broken my Mycroft tapping his umbrella on the ground and announcing, “Well I really must be going, Sherlock. Do be careful. John.” He nodded farewell at john and, with one last older brotherly look at Sherlock, who stared without blinking back, left the room.

“What was all that about?” John asked, once Mycroft had gone, sitting down in his armchair.

“There’s a rather pressing case at the moment that Mycroft needed knowledge of.” Sherlock did not look at john while he said this, but stared at the fireplace, smoking his cigarette.

“…Right. I thought you’d given them up?”

“Cases?”

“Cigarettes.”

“Oh. I will have once this case is closed.”

John frowned. “Is It really that bad?” but before Sherlock could answer, his phone made a ‘ping!’ and Sherlock opened the text with agitation. “Excellent.” He said under his breath.

“What is?” john asked. Sherlock leapt from his chair stubbing out his cigarette on the mantelpiece and grabbing his coat and scarf from their place on the couch.

“One of my homeless network has caught sight of our murderer. Possibly.”

_“What?”_

“Are you coming, John? It’ll be dangerous, but I don’t think that’s a problem.”

                                                                           ***

The cab they had taken was leading them deeper and deeper into a dingy and dark area of the city. Run down terrace houses followed them on either side, and the sky was a gloomy, fitting the mood. John stared at Sherlock, then at the space in front of him and then back at Sherlock again.

“And you missed this?”

Sherlock frowned and tried to explain himself, “At the time I didn’t have the time to-“

“No, wait, this man, _Moran_ , you thought he was dead, yes?”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes, but-“

“Though it turns out that he’s somehow alive.”

“That would seem to be the case.”

John huffed, “Is this some sort of karma?”

Sherlock frowned, “What?”

John sighed; his moment of mirth was over, “Never mind.”

Sherlock had told John of the murdered banker, the strange style of his death, and the fact that an assassin he had thought was dead was somehow in London at it again.

“This man is the most dangerous man alive, he was Moriarty’s second hand, but now it seems he is eliciting some sort of revenge for his employer’s death.”

“By murdering bankers?”

“One banker, John. Just here will be fine.”  The two exited the cab, Sherlock paying the driver swiftly.

“But what did this banker do to him that means Moran would murder him for revenge?” John asked, as they walked down the dreary street

“I don’t know yet, but he left me a message.”

“A message?”

“Yes, this.”

Sherlock handed john the white spider, dabbled with blood. John inspected this macabre piece of origami, feeling befuddled. He was definitely missing something.

“But…how do you know this was a message for you?”

“The death was a strange one; a man being killed by three shots fired to create the shape of a triangle, when the shot to his head would have been enough. Moran knew that the Police were bound to summon me, so he kills this man in the style of a killer I had put away. No one else would realise the connection. Furthermore, this token,” he indicated to the spider, “was what he used before as his…shall we say signature? Once again, it would be something only I would recognise, and since we were never one hundred percent certain of Moran’s decease, it is almost certainly him.”

John was a little taken aback at Sherlock’s honesty that he had not been sure of something. Of course, john knew very little about what Sherlock had been up to in his two years of destroying Moriarty’s network; Sherlock had never let on. John was not sure why.

“Why is Moran such a bother to you that we’re hunting him down, Sherlock? What happened?”

Sherlock did not answer, but stopped walking, gazing up at a run-down and depressing three- storey house. He seemed lost in thought, and John stared at him and the house quizzically.

“John, if Moran really is in there then be careful; he will kill without a second thought.”

“Yeah, alright.” John had been in a warzone, he could handle dangerous situations. Plus he had his gun, safely tucked into the back of his trousers.

Sherlock looked towards him, “Ready?”

John nodded, and together they entered the house.

                                                                                ***

It had been obvious from the moment they entered that someone was in the house; the door had already been forced open, a trail of footsteps cut through the dust caking the floor, and speckles of blood accompanied the footsteps. The trail travelled up to the second level, and then onto the third. Sherlock and John crept up after them, all the time aware of what they were heading towards. They had made a plan to converse with Moran, but not provoke him into attack. Sherlock was very well aware that he may do this anyway, but he needed answers.

 Sherlock tried to focus on the present, as unelicited memories of the assassin sprung to his mind. _‘Laughter, savage laughter, footsteps hunting him, through ragged terrains, being so annoyingly vulnerable’_. He took a deep breath and stopped. John peered up at him confused.

“Sherlock?” He mouthed. Sherlock turned to him, looking all sorts of agitated and tormented. John had never seen such torment plain on his friend’s face, not up close anyway. Such anguish had before been evident in his tone of voice as he had spoken to John from the top of St. Bart’s. And then it was gone, and the Sherlock with sociopathic tendencies was back, face composed and determined.

They began their ascent, John bringing his gun out in front of him, ready. Sherlock carried no weapon, but they had decided to stick together. Reaching the third floor, the trails lead to the room at the end of the building, and they approached with caution. There through the open door a large figure could be seen bending down, placing something, no, _someone_ , on the floor. John’s heart hammered in his head as the moment of meeting came forward. Moran had not seen them yet, they had the upper hand. The figure straightened, and Sherlock tensed. Something was wrong.

Sherlock raised his hand to john, telling him to stay where he was, and continued to creep forward. The figure’s back was turned to them, so he did not see Sherlock coming, but he did hear him when a loose floorboard suddenly creaked under the weight of Sherlock’s foot. The figure turned, and Sherlock straightened up. He had seen that face before…

It took him a few moments, but he found that face at last, buried deep in his mind palace for good reason. One would find it hard to forget the face of their torturer, so Sherlock had hid it.

 _“You.”_ He spat. The Serbian man smiled malevolently at him, face caught in the light from the window; wretched and wild looking.

“Mr Holmes.” He said, in barely recognisable English.

Sherlock looked down at the corpse and then the Serbian man again. This time, the corpse had been murdered in the style of Oscar Hayes, a man Sherlock had detained in Poland; his head was completely smashed in, so that the face was almost unrecognisable, but the rest of the body was unharmed. Sherlock read it, and with this extra knowledge, found himself even more puzzled as to why this Serbian man was _not_ Moran. Lawyer, happy family, but he had had a second life, major adulterer, and gambler. Gambler.

The Serbian was still smiling, and Sherlock met his eyes. There was a moment, the hatred between the two men tangible in the room, when suddenly the Serbian man ran, sprinting past Sherlock and John, too stunned and too confused to go after him.

“Who-“ John began to ask Sherlock, but the other man was already hot on the Serbian’s tail. John stood between them and the corpse, between a rock and a hard place. Making his decision, he inspected the body ( _‘Oh my God’_ ) and quickly dialled Greg’s number, making sure the Police were aware of this murder before following after Sherlock. A lot of scuffling and grunts were arising from the lower floor, and John ran down the flights of stairs, gun still out in front of him, prepared to shot if he had to help Sherlock.  

What he was to find was chaos; sheets and furniture lay all around the front room, some pieces broken and splintering. The Serbian and Sherlock were throwing punches at each other. The Serbian had a cut on his cheek, while blood dribbled from a cut on Sherlock’s forehead and his lip dripped with blood. His expression was one of determination and….despair? But why would _Sherlock_ be despairing? What _the hell_ was going on?

The fight was abruptly ended by the Serbian shoving Sherlock roughly to the ground and launching himself out of the back window. John aimed his gun, but it was too late to try; the man was gone in the shattering of glass.

“DAMN!” Sherlock threw his fist upon the ground, anger evident on his bloody face.

“Sherlock, what…who…what just happened?” John put his gun away, now that the danger was gone.

“That wasn’t Moran,” Sherlock answered, getting up from the ground, out of breath, vexation clear on his face. “But it couldn’t have been _him_ , only Moran would know…”

“Yeah, but who actually was that?” John asked, getting annoyed at his obliviousness to the situation once again.

“I met him when I was in Serbia under some…unpleasant circumstances.”

John frowned, “What unpleasant circum-“

“This must be a diversion of sorts,” Sherlock cut John off with his thoughts, “something to torment me….I need to see the body again, before Lestrade comes in here and messes everything up.” Of course Sherlock knew that John would phone the Police.

“I need to look at your head!” John called after Sherlock as the man walked off, getting no reply. He sighed in exasperation. _‘The bloody idiot!’_

                                                                                 ***

Sherlock put on his gloves before touching the corpse, searching the dead lawyer’s jacket pockets to find what he wanted. He could still feel the blood sliding down his face, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the mental pain. Seeing that man again had been…..not good. Sherlock was not scared (‘go _d no_ ’), just irritated and surprised, which he hated. Moran was playing tricks with him, throwing in a red herring in order to provoke Sherlock, which had worked perfectly, as Sherlock’s cut head and lip showed.

Sherlock’s doubts were indeed resolved when his hand clenched upon something in the lawyer’s pocket. Pulling it out he was to find a second white spider, this one untarnished by blood, but upon its back there was a message, written in a rough hand: ‘Ha-ha, Mr Holmes. SM.’

Moran was playing a game. And Sherlock was not going to lose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Tumblr blog: thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

If Sherlock had any doubts that this was in fact Moran, they were put to death by the account of the neighbour who had seen the dead banker returned to his home in Belgravia.

“I had my suspicions he was drunk,” She had nattered, posh voice drawling in detestation for her dead neighbour, “Returning late every night. And then I could hear his wretched music, pounding through the walls. No respect.” It took her a long time to open up, especially when Sherlock looked so roughed up (it had taken a lot of convincing on Sherlock’s part to get John to let him go and see this neighbour before getting his injuries seen to first), but her words were like gold when she could easily describe the night of the murder and the man her neighbour had been with.

“I can only remember it so well since the man actually spoke to me,” She’d shuddered then, “Oh my God, I spoke to a murderer!”

“Yes, but what did he look like.” Sherlock had asked impatiently. The woman frowned slightly, biting a perfectly manicured nail. “I remember him having a defined jaw, and quite a long nose, and eyes that were such a beautiful blue. He was quite handsome really.” At this Sherlock had rolled his eyes and sighed, so John had decided to take over the interview.

“Anything else you can tell us?”

“Looked like he had brown hair, hard to tell as it was night. Very nice build. And there was something else…I only remembered because it stuck out in my mind…..” ( _‘Did it?’_ Sherlock had thought, catching himself before he actually said it. _‘Right, manners’_ ), “Oh! Now I remember! He had a scar, running all the way down his cheek.” At this Sherlock had looked up; this puts his doubts to death. “Most people might have found it horrific,” the woman had nattered on, “but I found it _sexy_.”

John had frowned, and then coughed, feeling completely uncomfortable. “Well, thank you very much, it’s very helpful for-“

“Don’t think that I was flirting with a murderer!” the neighbour had suddenly cut in, looking flustered, “He said to me he was helping his friend get home after too many drinks, I’d only come out because he was making so much noise dragging him down the street.”

“Yes, well, thank you again.”

They’d left her staring out from her grand porch, and they’d walked swiftly down the icy street in search of a cab.

                                                                             ***

Now they were back at Baker Street, Sherlock pacing in the living room, John searching for his old first aid kit and Mrs Hudson fussing over both of them, making a pot of tea.

“Oh, Sherlock, you must stop getting into these scrapes. It might be much worse than this one day, young man. You must be more careful.” Mrs Hudson stood staring at him by the kitchen counter, hand on hip. Sherlock didn’t reply, just kept pacing, hands steepled under his chin.

“Sherlock?” she tried again, then tutted with exasperation and worry when she didn’t get an answer.  John came into the kitchen, first aid kit in hand, and assessing the tense scene placed the first aid kit on the table and whispered to Mrs Hudson out of ear shot of Sherlock: ”Mrs Hudson, has he ever said anything to you about anything that happened when he was away or anybody he met….?”

Mrs Hudson shook her head, “No, nothing. John, what is it that’s bothering him? Is it this case? He came home yesterday very agitated.” He had stormed up the stairs, refusing Mrs Hudson’s offer of a cup of tea, slamming his door.

John grimaced, more worried than ever. “I’m not sure yet, Mrs Hudson.” They shared an anxious look, which was broken by the ringing of the bell.

“I’ll get that.” Mrs Hudson stated, and then left the room.

“Sherlock, sit down.” John ordered whilst he fetched a bowl of water, a cloth and from the first aid kit some antiseptic. Sherlock continued to pace; apparently he hadn’t heard John. “ **Sherlock**.” John said louder. Sherlock finally looked up ( _‘Ah, a breakthrough!’_ ). “Sit down; I need to look at those cuts.” John gestured to the kitchen and Sherlock came and slumped in a chair.

John started to clean the cuts, dabbing at them gently. Sherlock was strangely compliant, staring at one point on the floor without blinking, looking extremely pensive. Moran was bothering him, John knew, but the whole fiasco with the Serbian man confused John greatly. This man had thrown Sherlock off, and then angered him to the point of fighting. And what had been these unpleasant circumstances? John was missing something. Again.

 “You okay?”

“Of course.” Was the terse reply, and Sherlock did not look at John, just kept staring at the floor.

“Right, yeah, ‘of course’.” John muttered. Before he could provoke anything else out of Sherlock, however, with a clattering of feet Mrs Hudson returned, followed by Mary.

“Hi John, Sherlock- Oh my God! What happened to your face?” Mary gave John a brief kiss on the cheek before he returned to attending to Sherlock’s wounds. Sherlock’s gaze flicked to Mary for a second and then back to the floor. Mary caught onto Sherlock’s worrying mood immediately: he normally always spoke to Mary.

“He had a run in with a Serbian.” John answered her for Sherlock, who had begun tapping his fingers on the table. Mary caught John’s eye, and in the way those so close to each other can, the two spoke without speaking; Mary asked what was wrong with her eyes, and John shrugged back.

“There you go love, nice cup of tea!” Mrs Hudson handed a cup to Mary, and then placed two on the kitchen table for John and Sherlock.

“Thanks, Mrs H.” John finished up with the cut on Sherlock’s forehead, dumping the cloth into the bowl, and clearing away his first aid kit. “It doesn’t need stitches, but keep and eye on it.” He said to Sherlock.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said, turning his gaze to the tabletop, sipping his tea and sounding not at all with it. He was definitely lost in thought. John had checked, and he wasn’t concussed.

“So how’s the wedding planning going, Mary?” Mrs Hudson asked excitedly.

“Yeah, yeah really good, I think we’ve decided on lilac for the bridesmaids, right John?”

John nodded. “Hmm, yeah, though I suggested mustard!” Mrs Hudson giggled. Mary put her teacup down on the coffee table. “Actually, John could I have a word?” She asked, pointing to the stairway.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He replied, and they swiftly exited.

                                                                               ***

When John and Mary had left, Mrs Hudson sat down next to Sherlock, peering at him concernedly as she sipped her tea.  Sherlock continued to tap his fingers on the table.

“Sherlock, what is it? What’s the matter?” Sherlock looked up at her then, and he had that wild look in his eyes that he always got when enraptured with a case.

“This case is a dangerous, Mrs Hudson, and I know every murder is meant for me, and that he’s getting closer…”

Mrs Hudson frowned, “Who is?”

“Sebastian Moran.” Sherlock looked away again, head perking up, listening intently.

“And who’s that?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, frowning slightly, lips parted. He looked at Mrs Hudson. “They’re talking about me.”

                                                                             ***

John followed Mary out into the stairwell, and stood at the top of the steps while she stood a couple of steps down from him.

“What’s up with him?” Mary asked, crossing her arms. Mary had come round after her shift to see how their case was going, John had received a text from Sherlock while they were having dinner yesterday and she had insisted she be updated on its progress.

“Something about this case is bugging him, but he won’t bloody well tell me what it is.”

“Oh, come on John, didn’t you ask what was wrong?”

“Of course I did!” John whispered coarsely, “He just doesn’t open up about his feelings; you know what he’s like!”

Mary sighed, “Didn’t he tell you anything?”

John turned around to the closed door, hearing the sound of voices behind it, and then descended so he stood on the same step as Mary, and they whispered like fugitives. “All he’s said is that the murderer is a man called Moran, and that he’s someone he had a run in with while he was away. And this Serbian bloke was apparently someone he met under ‘unpleasant circumstances’. Now I may not know much, Mary, but I know something happened while he was away that’s……traumatised him in some way? I mean this is Sherlock we’re talking about so I don’t think traumatised is the right word, but it’s affected him!”

Mary sighed and muttered something that sounded like “Men!” under her breath before looking John straight in the eyes, “John, you are going to go in there and ask him directly what it is that’s bothering him and why, and you are going to get the truth out of him!”

“It won’t be that easy, Mary; he’ll say something clever really fast in response that’s probably insulting me and then I’ll never get an answer out of him!”

“Oh for God’s sake John!” Mary forcibly grabbed him by the arm, forced him up the stairs, opened the door and shoved him through.

“Oh, John, good.” Sherlock didn’t question John’s sudden appearance, but instead was throwing on his coat and scarf. “We need to go now; there’s been a sighting of Moran, and this time it’s actually him.” Sherlock’s tone was serious and he was frowning deeply. John grabbed his coat.

                                                                                 ***

They were at an abandoned warehouse; crates were scattered on the warehouse floor and at the end of it was two storeys of offices and smaller rooms. Mary had insisted on coming, despite protests from both John and Sherlock. John was armed with his gun once again. Throughout the whole cab ride Sherlock had been silent, gazing out the window or typing on his phone on the seat opposite John and Mary, who had held a hushed conversation about the events at the ruined house earlier that day.

Now they stood outside this warehouse as a cloudy day was turning into a cloudy night. Sherlock had not been completely clear on the plan, but John was pretty sure it was the same one they’d had that morning; find Moran and try not to get killed (hence why John had really not been keen about Mary coming, although Sherlock had reassured him that Moran would be more interested in him than either John or Mary).

Luckily for them the warehouse door was ajar, and it only took a small push on Sherlock’s behalf to swing it wide open. Unfortunately this was followed by a very loud squeal. It was almost pitch black inside, dust fogging up the windows and blocking the light, and it was a dodging game to miss the crates and prevent making another loud noise which might alert Moran to their presence.

Suddenly there was the sound of movement in the building at the end of the warehouse. Sherlock looked up and ran off before John could do anything about it. “Sherlock!” he whispered harshly, and looking at Mary for conformation of their next move the both of them ran after him.

                                                                            ***

Sherlock’s mind was blinded from logic by the hatred he felt for Moran, and the thought that he may be close to getting an answer from him. Moran would not get the best of him again, not after the last time, or the time before that… _‘that laugh again, cruelly sneering at him, feet kicking him and kicking him and the stabbing pains shooting through his body, while that laugh still continued…’_. Pushing those thoughts away, he focussed on the rustling movement. Suddenly shots fired out and Sherlock jumped to his right, landing behind a crate as he felt the air rush beside him.

“John? Mary? Are you alright?” He called out, not bothered about keeping quiet now Moran knew of their presence. He’d probably known all along. Sherlock had always known this was a trap, and yet he came anyway, because this wasn’t Moran’s final revenge, no, not yet; this was the prelude.

“Sherlock! Didn’t it occur to you that this may be a trap?” came back John’s angry reply.

“Of course it did!” He shouted back. When he had been with Mycroft that morning the two had known, obviously, that Moran was only letting himself be found because he wanted to be, hence why they had not known he was still alive until yesterday. Mycroft would not be happy if he knew Sherlock was doing this; he always was so protective, but Sherlock was angry, _really_ angry, at Moran. Sherlock thought he was done with everything and everyone from his two years away, and now Moran was bringing up memories he had suppressed.

Suddenly in the darkness Sherlock’s eyes sought out an open door, leading up to where Moran was shooting from. Looking back to where he could just about see John and Mary he took that moment when John was aiming his gun at Moran and Mary was looking around for…something to run out from his hiding spot and quickly through the open door.

He winced as his footsteps caused the floorboards to creak in pain, stepping lightly as he made his way to a battered metal staircase. Climbing slowly he could see Moran at the top, looking out the window, gun poised ready to shoot. Sherlock had to get all of Moran’s attention to him before he did anything to John or Mary. It was a mistake coming with them; he should have come alone. Luckily none of the floorboards betrayed him, and he thought he had the upper hand on the assassin, creeping up behind him, ready to attack if needed, when Moran suddenly turned around, smiling malevolently and laughing. _That_ laugh.

“Why, Mr Holmes, it’s been an age.”

“Moran.” Sherlock spat out, breathing raggedly.

“I want to thank you for this,” Moran pointed to the scar on his face, “I think it adds to my personality, don’t you think?”

Sherlock did not rise to Moran’s taught, instead sticking to what he had intended to ask, “Why now, Moran? Why are you only now revealing you are alive, it was months ago!”

“Oh, I thought you might be feeling bored by now, with no one to destroy and such!”

Sherlock snarled, “You think I enjoyed doing that?”

“Of course you did.” Moran moved closer to him, stuffing his gun into his trouser belt, and Sherlock involuntarily tensed, hating himself for it. “Getting the better of someone, being right; the satisfaction must have been amazing!”

“I am right on a regular basis.” Sherlock remarked, voice shaking ever so slightly with hate.

“Very good, Mr Holmes, but do you remember the cold? The running? Always on the move, never staying anywhere comfortable, being forced to taker shelter in a forest? Do you remember being deprived of everything, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock just stared at him, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “Oh? No clever remark? Reminds me of…was it…..Germany? Remember that? When you were too tired to fight back, and you finally let someone get the better of you?” Sherlock’s breathing accelerated even faster, and he knew Moran could see the animosity in his eyes. “Well? Do you remember? Or would you like a reminder?”

That was it. Moran had done it. Now Sherlock was furious beyond description. He punched Moran before he knew he had done it, many locked doors in his Mind Palace suddenly springing open; full of grim memories. Moran smiled once again at Sherlock, blood dripping from his mouth. He punched back.

                                                                                ***

The two of them fought, throwing punches and kicks skilfully applied to the right areas, both of them having a good enough knowledge to cause their opponent the most amount of harm. Sherlock had forgotten how strong Moran was, and although he’d never admit it he was finding this fight incredibly hard. He was overpowered when Moran delivered a forceful punch to his stomach, winding him so much he collapsed to the floor. Moran took this opportunity laugh once again, the blood from his mouth splattering on the floor next to Sherlock. Then he was gone for a second, and when he was back he had something in his hands.

“I got word, you know, of when the Serbians had captured you. I was glad they could finish what I had started. Does this look familiar?” Sherlock raised his eyes to see Moran holding a large crowbar. Thoughts of the dingy cellar he had been chained in came to his mind, but he pushed them away again, to where the other memories dwelled, waiting to pounce. “Of course, you’ve already seen your Serbian friend today, haven’t you? I knew it would provoke you, and if you came here you’d be baying for a confrontation. But I have to admit I didn’t think you had this much in you, though last time you weren’t exactly in a position to fight back, were you?” Moran laughed again and Sherlock raised himself onto his knees, wiping blood from his mouth.

“If you think a crowbar is enough to scare me, Moran, then you do not know me at all. Do your research.”  

At this Moran laughed, “Oh I will do for next time, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock frowned; he thought that this would be it; the one and only confrontation; that Moran would want to get his revenge and then that would be it. Moran saw the confusion on Sherlock’s face and his smile grew wider, “What? Have I confused the great Sherlock Holmes? Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Mr Holmes, no. First I have a little more revenge to get on certain people, and then we’ll see, hmm? Oh no, I just brought you here to do this.” And then suddenly, with no time to prepare for it, Sherlock was hit viciously with the crowbar.  He couldn’t contain his shouts as he was hit repeatedly in the side and back by the crowbar. Moran’s face was set in a vicious snarl. Sherlock may have imagined it, but he thought he could hear the sounds of cars pulling up from outside before the vicious hits suddenly stopped and he let himself slump to the floor.

                                                                                     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Tumblr Blog: thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

It had taken John, to his vexation, almost two minutes to realise what Sherlock had done. He had been so focussed on aiming his gun at Moran, ready to shoot if necessary, that he had failed to notice his best friend slip into the offices. Mary, however, had spotted it almost immediately, and the two of them ran off after their friend, John in front with his gun and Mary with her improvised weapon of a chunk of wooden board. By the time they entered the offices, the realisation hit John: Sherlock was confronting Moran, unarmed and undefended. The stupid git.

From the creaking of the floorboards and the sound of voices above them it was safe to say that was where Moran and Sherlock were, and it didn’t take a genius to realise that the metal staircase was how Sherlock had made his ascent. Mary ran over to it, much to John’s panic, but instead of immediately climbing up she only went halfway so she could get a peek at the floor above and then came down again.

“We can’t go up that way; they’re baying for a fight and Moran’s facing this direction; he would see us. We need to find another way up.”  John’s Army career and the fact that he trusted his wife told him that to suddenly appear behind Sherlock, armed and angry, would cause Moran to use unwanted violence.

The couple navigated through the two darkened rooms on the ground floor, searching for another staircase. Luckily for them, they found one on the other side of the building, meaning they would appear behind Moran. The two of them slowly made their way up, cautious of making any noise. John, who had gone first, peered into the room and was angered by what he saw; Moran, standing over Sherlock, holding a crowbar, taunting him while Sherlock knelt subdued yet still with fire in his eyes.

“What? Have I confused the great Sherlock Holmes? Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Mr Holmes, no.”, Moran was saying, “First I have a little more revenge to get on certain people, and then we’ll see, hmm? Oh no, I just brought you here to do this.” And then he was suddenly beating Sherlock, hitting him viciously over and over with the crowbar. And John was running up the last stairs, gun poised ready to shoot. And then Mary’s hand was on his arm, and she was shouting “No!” and was pushing past John and hitting Moran viciously with the wooden plank.

Moran cried out in surprise and pain, turning around to face Mary. “John, get the crowbar!” She ordered, and John ran forward, grabbing the crowbar with his left hand, still holding his gun in the right. Mary was still threatening Moran with her wooden plank, her face surprisingly calm, when suddenly the sound of dozens of cars pulling up outside caught Moran’s attention, his face turning spiteful and determined. Dropping the crowbar he shoved past Mary viciously, causing her to fall to the ground, and with that he was gone.

“Mary!” John shouted, rushing to her, but she waved him away, already getting up. “I’m fine, go to Sherlock.” _‘Oh god, Sherlock!’_

John quickly turned to his best friend; Sherlock had slumped onto the floor and was now weakly trying to pull himself up again.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me?” John asked, kneeling down next to him on the dusty wooden floor, helping him to sit up by firmly grabbing his arms in his hands.

“Of course I can, John.” Sherlock croaked between ragged breaths, “ I’ve not suddenly gone deaf,”

“Yeah, alright,” Injured Sherlock with a damaged pride was a very moody Sherlock; John knew from experience. “What the hell did you say to make him do this?” John asked, undertones of anger in his voice. John could see in Sherlock’s eyes that he was now even more agitated than he had been that morning. What had gone on between him and Moran?

“It’s more what he said to me which made me punch him.” Sherlock admitted, holding a hand to his mouth to wipe away the blood.

“Oh, so you started this?” John asked

Sherlock did not meet John’s eyes, “Perhaps.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” but before John could go into full reprimanding mode, he was interrupted by the sound of feet on the stairs, and suddenly Mycroft Holmes stood there, followed by dozens of men wearing black uniforms and holding guns.

“Well, brother dear,” he began, surveying his little brother, “What a mess you’ve made.”

Sherlock glared at him, struggling to get up, gasping loudly as he pulled on a wound. John only helped by grabbing Sherlock’s upper arm, not wanting to damage his pride further in front of his brother.

“I thought this would be it, Mycroft, I didn’t realise he would want to prolong his revenge.” Sherlock panted between words.

“Hmmm, it seems we’ve misjudged him somewhat.”

“What the hell is going on here?” John demanded to know. Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground before answering him.

“My brother had reason to believe that Moran had led him here in order to kill him, and in order to prevent that happening asked for my assistance. Has he gone?” this question was directed to an agent who had just run in.

“Yes, sir, we weren’t able to get him in time. However, he did leave this.” In his hand the man held something small and white.

“Give me that,” Sherlock said, reaching his arm forward. The movement however caused him to gasp in pain, and so John took the little white spider for him.

“There’s nothing on it.” He stated, turning the thing over in his hands.

“No,” Sherlock replied, “It’s just another warning, telling me he’ll be back.” His eyes got that distant look they had when he was thinking hard. John sighed. 

“Brilliant, so there’s still an assassin on the loose.” Mycroft grimaced and Mary bit her lip.

Sherlock started pacing agitatedly but the movement caused his newly acquired wounds to protest and he gave an involuntary gasp. _‘Oh this had happen in front of Mycroft, didn’t it?’_

“I’m fine, John!” He protested, as John tried to get a look at his wounds.

“Well, obviously you’re not. It’s too dark in here anyway; I’ll have to look at them at Baker Street.”

“John, really-“

“No, shut up Sherlock and let me help you!” Sherlock sighed, eyes flicking from floor to John and back.

“I think I shall accompany you, there is a matter I need to discuss with my brother somewhere private.” Mycroft stated, and turned down the staircase to go, before noticing Mary and giving his signature smile. “Ah, you must be Miss Morstan.” The two shook hands, Mary smiling slightly in greeting, before Mycroft descended with one last knowing look at his brother.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” John asked, hoping Sherlock would open up a little more without his brother there.

“Of course I am John.” Sherlock said, before carefully and slowly making his way down the stairs.

John sighed.

                                                                                ***

They had taken one of Mycroft’s many cars back to Baker Street, Sherlock gasping in pain almost every time he moved; getting out the car had been a painful experience.

Moran had shaken him more than he would ever admit, and Sherlock knew that John’s ever present curiosity about what was bothering him was desperate to get what it wanted. Sherlock didn’t want to tell John, though, he didn’t want to see the pity and the guilt in his eyes. Sherlock did not want John to feel guilty; Sherlock had done what he had done because it needed to be done and that was that. He should just delete those memories and have done with it, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t that simple.

Moran, that bastard, had opened up one of the many scars on his back that Sherlock had received from Serbia. He could feel the blood dripping down his back, the pain sharp and hot. John was going to find out. He _couldn’t_ find out.

                                                                            ***

The four of them were met by Mrs Hudson at the door, looking concerned by the bruises that were now appearing on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh Sherlock, now what has happened to you?” Sherlock pushed past her, walking up the stairs as quickly as he could in his condition.

“Do not worry for my brother’s constitution, Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft reassured her. “I am sure that Doctor Watson will be on hand to help.” And with a brief smile he disappeared after Sherlock.

“A cup of tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson.” John said as he walked past her, Mary following on.

Mrs Hudson stared after them, wondering what on earth had happened ( _‘and why is Mycroft here?’_ ), before closing the door and going to make tea.

                                                                             ***

“Right Sherlock, same as earlier; sit there.” John directed. Mycroft sat in Sherlock’s chair whilst waiting for Sherlock to be seen to, and Mary helped John by fetching some ice for Sherlock’s face. Sherlock gingerly sat on the kitchen chair.

“Thank you.” He muttered as Mary handed him some ice wrapped in a cloth, and he held it to his face.

“Sherlock, you’re gonna have to take off your top; I need to check if any of your ribs are broken.”

“John, seriously, it’s fine. I’m just bruised.”

“Sherlock, he was hitting you with a crowbar. I need to check.” John used his stern voice on Sherlock, but the man was always resilient.

“John, I-“

“No, shut up Sherlock! I do not want to risk you getting internal bleeding because you won’t let me check, now just take off your shirt.” After saying this, John sensed everyone’s eyes on him: Mycroft was smirking, while John and Mary both had their eyebrows raised. “Just…..please.” he finished lamely.

Sherlock stared at him for a long while before sighing, slipping off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, wincing as this tugged on his wounds. He let it drop to the floor, and then waited for John to discover his secret, resigned to the fact he would see.

“No, looks like none of them are broken, you’re just badly bruised.” John concluded.

“Thank you, John.”

“Now let me check your back.” John ordered, and before Sherlock could stop him, thinking he had almost got away with it, John moved him round in the chair, Sherlock’s back now on full show.

 John’s stomach dropped at the sight of Sherlock’s back; numerous scars littered Sherlock’s skin, some raised and an angry red colour and others fine white lines. One of them had re-opened and was now dribbling blood down his back. He stared at the back of his friend’s head in shock. This looked like Sherlock had been…..no, he couldn’t have been.

“Sherlock, how did you get these scars?” he asked quietly.

“Not now John.” was Sherlock’s monotone reply.

“But-“

“Please, John. Not now.” A please from Sherlock Holmes meant this was a delicate subject. John looked up to Mary, who had snuck round from her place by the door to look at Sherlock’s back, for help but she gave him a look that said _‘don’t push him any further’_. So John just got on with cleaning the wound and then stitching it up; the flesh too torn to heal naturally. When he was finished Mycroft got up off his seat and before could speak was asking, “John, if you’ve quite finished I would like to have that private talk with my brother?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure.” Mycroft smiled blandly at him and walked towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “Sherlock?” He called, and the younger Holmes got up from the chair, joining his brother in his bedroom. The door closed, leaving a perplexed and shocked John outside.

                                                                          ***

“This isn’t about Moran, is it?” Sherlock asked as the door closed behind him, going to his wardrobe to retrieve a new shirt. He had difficulty, however, getting it on without pulling painfully on his back. Mycroft stepped forward to help; Sherlock glared at him, but Mycroft simply raised his eyebrows. Sherlock gave in and let his brother help him.

“No, brother dear, it isn’t. Not directly anyway.”

“Then what is it?” Sherlock snapped, doing up his buttons, trying not to wince; Mycroft was _not_ going to help him with _this_. Mycroft stepped away.

“It is about the effect he has had on you.” Sherlock did not reply, just tucked in his shirt, gritting his teeth. “Sherlock.” Mycroft continued. “You should tell him.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“No, he doesn’t need to know, but I think it would be wiser if he should.”

“And why should I listen to what you think?” Sherlock snarled, facing his brother.

“Because you know what I’m saying is logical. Think, Sherlock; by shutting him out he is becoming less helpful on a case which compromises your logic and reasoning, you’ve already been in two fights today, for God’s sake!”

“John doesn’t need to know all of it, if he thinks this case is bothering me-“

“Which he does.” Mycroft interrupted.

“-then he’s hardly going to refuse to help now, is he? We’ve already been out investigating!” Sherlock protested.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft stepped towards his younger brother, warning in his tone. “The more you push him away, the more angry he’s going to become and the less likely it will be that he’ll help you.”

Sherlock sighed, knowing that Mycroft was right, but he didn’t want to tell John. He didn’t want his best friend to see him differently.

“Sherlock, I know what you’re thinking, but to tell him will be the best thing for you and for him. Keeping it all to yourself is unwise, brother mine.”

Sherlock sighed again, looking to the floor. Mycroft smiled, knowing his brother had seen sense.

“When did you get so knowledgeable about human feelings?” Sherlock asked him.

Mycroft smiled, “I’ve been watching the goldfish, brother mine.”

                                                                                   ***

When the brothers exited Sherlock’s bedroom, Mary and John rose from where they had been sitting at the kitchen table, the first aid kit packed away and replaced with cups of tea. Apparently Mrs Hudson had delivered them while Sherlock and Mycroft had been talking. Sherlock went to sit at the kitchen table, while Mycroft stood in the doorway.

“Well, I really must be off Sherlock; I have a meeting with the PM tomorrow and an assassin to look for. Stay out of trouble this time, and _do not_ go looking for him on your own. John, Mary.” And with a stern look, Mycroft was gone.

Sherlock glared his Brother’s retreating form, then lowered his head when he was gone. John and Mary stared at him, waiting for him to do something. Finally he looked up.

“John, I think it’s time for you to know what happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Tumblr blog: thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

John sat up, clearing his throat. What had Mycroft said to make Sherlock finally confess?

“You sure?” He asked.

“Yes, if I don’t tell you now then I never will, and apparently you need to know.” Sherlock sounded casual, but the anxiety was there in the tenseness of his shoulders.

“Yes, well, it would help…” John leant forward again; motioning that he was ready for Sherlock to begin. Mary stared at both of them for a moment.

“Do you want me to…?” she indicated to the door with her thumb, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No, you might as well hear it too; it could be helpful for the case.”

John stared at him, “Mary’s not getting involved with this.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “What? No. No. this is bloody dangerous and I don’t want her-“

“John, I will be fine if you’re there to protect me, won’t I?” Mary cut in, but John was not falling for it.

“Mary, I don’t want you to be in any danger-“

“John, for God’s sake nothing you say will convince me to not get involved. I have to make sure you’re safe as much as you have to protect me. You’re my fiancée, remember?”

Sherlock smirked slightly at Mary’s words and at seeing John sigh and give in. “Fine, right, yes.” He muttered, and Mary took her seat next to him, squeezing his hand for a moment, then they both looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock looked down; it was time to begin.

“To begin with, taking down Moriarty’s network was simple, just like solving a case,” Sherlock began, staring down at the table. “The more…elite of the network were a better class of criminal. Dismantling it took me around most of the world, hunting them down. I had some help from Mycroft, of course, well, his ‘agents’ anyway. That was the first year, and then the second year, that was-” Sherlock broke off, and a thrumming silence descended on the flat. John could see Sherlock’s agitation in the fiddling of his fingers against the desk, but he couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t read the outcome of that second year in his face.

“Sherlock?” he asked. Sherlock looked up, taking a deep breath. The agitation was there on his face too.

“Sorry,” He gazed around the room, thinking hard. “I’m not quite sure how to….”

“No, it’s fine, just take your time.” John could remember very well his therapy sessions, when he’d be sat there, finding that the words got stuck in his throat. Sherlock looked as though he was having the same problem, and forcing him to hurry would not be helpful.

“In the second year I encountered a problem.” He finally said, staring at the table top once more, hands grasped together tightly. “I was digging deeper into Moriarty’s network, and suddenly I found myself involved with assassins and the vilest of criminals. I was captured by a criminal base and treated….” Sherlock coughed, eyebrows furrowing. “With very little decency.” He settled on. John frowned. Did Sherlock mean…? Before he could ask however, Sherlock continued, keeping his voice level and stating the events like facts. “That was where I first met Moran. He was leading that section of the network. He had been Moriarty’s second in command, and when he realised that someone was destroying it, he rushed onto the next target to confront this mole; me. And confront me he did.

“It took me a while but I managed to escape, though my trail was easy to spot. Moran hunted me out. I was running for hours, with my constitution very much weakened, and when he found me my fight was very weak. I did manage, however, to cut his cheek; I had stolen a knife from his belt, but he was very close to overpowering me when he fell. We were fighting by the edge of a waterfall, and I managed to trip him and he went tumbling down into the waters.

“On second thoughts I should have checked to see if he was dead, such a _stupid_ mistake, but at the time I was more concerned about getting away from the remainder of Moran’s men.”

“The remainder?” Mary cut in. Sherlock looked at her then, regret in his eyes.

“Yes, on my way out I managed to procure a gun from one of them, and knowing what I had to do, why I had ever got involved with these people, and in order to make my escape easier, I had to….”

“Sherlock?” John asked gently, peering into his friend’s eyes. “Are you saying you killed them?” Sherlock looked back at John, directly into his eyes. He nodded, “Yes.”

John bowed his head, taking in this information. This was all wrong, Sherlock should not have been forced to kill, subjected to the treatment of those men (if that was what Sherlock was implying) this was all Moriarty’s fault, that bastard. Sherlock looked at John expectantly, and when there was no more of a reply continued his narrative, looking worried.

“I eventually found myself in a town, it was the middle of the night, but I found a phone, and rang up Mycroft, though I _hate_ to admit it, asking for help. He even came himself.” ( _‘Ah, so the brotherly feud can be overcome at times’_ )

“I recovered in a private hospital for a while, while Mycroft’s men took care of the rest of that base, but I insisted on dismantling the remainder of the network. I needed to, after what Moran had done to me. “ He swallowed, and John took this moment to confirm the horrible truth.

“Sherlock, are you saying that Moran had you..?” tortured was the word that was left hanging in the air. The pain seemed to radiate from Sherlock.

“Yes, John.” He said quietly. John let his head drop, knowing for sure now. “ _Jesus_.” He muttered. Next to him Mary had a hand to her mouth, eyes watering. “Oh my god.” She whispered.  Sherlock suddenly rolled up his sleeves, and bared his wrists to the pair; circling them were small scars, some more prominent than others. They showed signs of imprisonment, of chains holding Sherlock back.  

“Oh my…” John turned away, unable to look at them any longer.

“Did most of it himself, actually.” Sherlock whispered. This explained his absolute hate of Moran.

“What happened after that?” John asked, voice croaking. Sherlock should finish his story, and then he could say all he wanted to say.

“I discovered the last piece of Moriarty’s web in Serbia. It took me a while, but I eventually dismantled the final piece. I got myself in a bit of trouble though, and that’s where I encountered the Serbian we met today for the first time. I got myself out, though. Mycroft says he did, but of course that’s not true.”

“….and did he do that to you? The Serbian, I mean.” John indicated to Sherlock’s back. Sherlock sniffed, becoming aware of the pain from his re-opened scar.

“Yes, some of them; with a crowbar. The others were from before.” Sherlock cleared his throat and then continued. “That was why Moran was hitting me with one when you found us. He was doing it to torment me.” Sherlock ran a shaking hand through his hair, trying to push back the memories that had now come forward from the back of his mind, tormenting him all over again. “And that’s it.” He finished lamely.

                                                                            ***

By the time Sherlock had finished his story, John’s emotions were a mixture of anger, shock and sadness, stirring inside him like a putrid cocktail. He hated himself for not asking Sherlock about his time away earlier, not expecting it to be that horrid. John had been too pissed off with him when he’d first returned to care what he had been up to, feeling a stupid jealousy that Sherlock hadn’t trusted him. Now he knew why; it had been too dangerous. And Sherlock had been so alone, going through all that by himself, with only Mycroft, the _Ice Man_ , for company. He sucked in a deep breath.

“Are you ashamed of me?” Sherlock asked him, looking worried and…. _scared?_

John just stared at him, not quite believing the question he had just been asked. “God, no. of course I’m not. No, Sherlock, I’m angry at the bastards that did this to you, that brought you to having to kill and doing what they did…god, I’m sorry I didn’t ask you sooner, I should’ve…”

“John, it’s fine, I didn’t want you to know anyway, I didn’t want you to….to think differently of me.”

John raised his eyebrows. “That would be unavoidable, Sherlock.” Sherlock looked down, hands in his hair. “’cause now I know for certain that you are one the bravest people I’ve ever met, and I’m so proud of you for surviving all of that. “Sherlock looked up, looking shocked, an expression not seen much on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

“Thank you, John.” He replied, dropping shaking hands onto the table. John could see that this discussion had raised unwanted memories; they were there in Sherlock’s eyes. Mary too could see it, and smiling sadly at John’s speech raised herself from her seat.

“I’ll give you two a moment.” And touching Sherlock’s hands lightly for the briefest of moments, she left.

Silence followed her departure, John breathing heavily and Sherlock slumped over the table, leaning on a trembling hand, which was twisted in his locks. The memories were gaining more clarity, becoming harder to ignore. He groaned in frustration.

“Sherlock? You okay?” John asked, placing his hand lightly over Sherlock’s on the table.

“They’re getting worse John; the memories.” He muttered. “I couldn’t seem to delete them, but I’d hidden them deep in my Mind Palace, and now they’re free again. Oh, god!” he placed his head in both hands now, pulling at his hair.

“Sherlock, Just focus on my voice, focus on what I’m saying. Sherlock? Sherlock, come on, focus on me.” John directed, putting both hands on Sherlock’s wrists. John was familiar with this sort of trauma; unwanted memories tormenting you. He’d been through it all himself.

It took a few minutes, a few minutes filled with Sherlock’s ragged breathing and John’s calm reassurances, but eventually Sherlock raised his head from his hands, eyes bloodshot and tired, and nodded to John. John removed his hands and quickly fetched Sherlock a glass of water.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock accepted the glass and took a small sip. John returned to his seat opposite Sherlock, peering at him concerned.

“Sherlock, have you been suffering from any nightmares or flashbacks? ‘Cause if you are then I can-” He had to ask it; concerned for Sherlock both as his friend and as a doctor.

“Not in a while,” Sherlock admitted, looking down at the table once again. “When I was recovering in hospital it was the worst it has been. Now, though, I only get the occasional nightmare, and only in the aftermath of Moran’s return has it started becoming worse again. Really John, it’s not too bad.”

John exhaled loudly, “Right,” He muttered. Sherlock was a very private man, and John didn’t want to invade that privacy any more than he had done, but he cared about Sherlock, and didn’t want him to suffer in silence any longer. “Sherlock, I want you to know that I’m going to here with you, _for_ you, whenever you need me, and that together we’re going to stop this bastard, and end all of this, alright?”

Sherlock smiled weakly, looking up at John, appearing much calmer. “Thank you, John.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Tumblr Blog: thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:**

John lay awake in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling as he had done when Sherlock had risen from the grave. Images of Sherlock’s scarred back and wrists were running through his head, along with his imagination conjuring up the scenes of Sherlock’s words.

_“I was captured by a criminal base and treated….With very little decency.”_

_“Did most of it himself, actually.”_

Moran. That bastard. John wished more than ever that they would find the man soon so that he could give him a piece of his mind. John’s conscience was playing havoc with him. he was always going to be angry at Sherlock for lying to him and putting him through all that grief, but upon hearing the struggles of Sherlock’s time away he couldn’t help but feel sympathy for his best friend, and, although Sherlock would hate him for thinking this, pity.

_“Sherlock?  Are you saying you killed them?”_

_“Yes.”_

A killer. Moran had turned Sherlock into a killer in order for him to make his escape. John knew Sherlock well, knew how he didn’t feel feelings like any other person, but all these horrid events had caused him a deep seated pain, and maybe that was why this angered John so much. Because this was Sherlock, and seeing him anything but the cool and composed man he almost always was wrong, especially when John thought of the agitation in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sighing, John rolled over onto his side; seeking comfort in Mary’s sleeping form. He wrapped his arms around her, taking in her individual smell, and willed these thoughts to go away. Somehow, though, he knew it just wasn’t going to be that easy.

 

A month passed and there was no sign of Moran. A month passed in which Sherlock’s physical injuries healed but his mental ones still wreaked havoc on him, especially at night in the form of nightmares. He was grateful when he could occupy his time with a case, his mind pushing thoughts of Moran into the broom cupboard of his mind palace for that moment, although they were still there, irritating him like a constant fly buzzing around in his head.

John was also finding himself increasingly irritated, and he too was grateful for the distraction of work and of wedding planning. Sherlock had been strangely compliant to their coming to him for his thoughts on their big day, and it surprised John to see his best friend looking  like he almost…cared that the day went well for them. Sherlock would never admit it though.

Mycroft dropped round to Baker Street every once in a while; updating his brother on the search for Moran. There had been no leads so far, and no third body showed up. Whatever Moran’s revenge was, he was certainly waiting for the right time.

                                                                    ***

It was on a particularly cold day in February when John found the doorstep of 221B occupied with a young woman. He coughed to announce his arrival, and when she turned to him there was worry and fear alighting in her eyes. She must be a client.

“Hello? Are you looking for Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, and she nodded without speaking, tangled red hair blowing in the wind. She looked to have on, underneath her thick woollen coat, her pyjamas. This woman was the perfect picture of a rush.

John fumbled with the keys in his glove hand for a moment before slotting the right one into 221B’s door and turning the lock. A gust of warm air greeted them, and both John and the young woman hurried quickly into the hallway.

“I’m John Watson,” John said as they travelled up the stairs to the flat, him leading the way.

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen you and Mr Holmes on the news.” The young woman answered, her dialect crisp and enunciated.

“Oh, really?” John wasn’t surprised by this, not really, but it was good manners. They came to the top of the seventeen steps and John pushed opened the door to the living room, greeted with the sight of Sherlock concentrating hard at something on his computer screen at the shared desk.

“Hello, John.” He said without looking up.

“Sherlock.” John greets him back. “We have a client.” Sherlock looks up from his screen at the young woman still standing in the doorway. His eyes travelled over her for a few seconds before they turned back to his computer screen.

“yes.” He replied

“Please, take a seat.” John told her, pulling up the spare chair from the desk. She thanks him and sits down in it cautiously, eyes on Sherlock, as John too takes his seat in his old armchair.

Sherlock takes a few more minutes to finally avert his attention from his computer and to them, sitting down heavily in his armchair and looking at the woman once again with that knowing look in his eye.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asks.

“It-it’s my partner,” She begins, voice hesitant and quiet, “He’s gone. We were both in last night, we watched a film and then I went to bed, but he stayed up to play one of his video games. I fell asleep before he turned in and when I woke up this morning…” She paused for a moment, pulling something out of her jacket pocket. “There was no note, no text, and I know Michael; he would have told me where he was going.”

“Were there any signs of a struggle?” Sherlock asked, sounding rather bored so far at this woman’s tale.

“The coffee table was off at an angle, and part of the wallpaper was ripped off- here, I took a photo of it.” She pulled out of her jacket pocket a very swish looking phone and, after bringing up the correct photo, passed it to Sherlock.

“Oh, thank you.” Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised by this woman’s initiative, and, if John was correct, a slither suspicious.

As he examined the photo, Sherlock’s brow ruffled and the suspicion in his eyes grew ever larger. John tried to make eye contact with him, but Sherlock never looked his way, and once he was finished with the phone he passed it back to the woman with a look of cool composure on his face.

“Yes, well, it is quite evident that your partner was taken out of his will. But that’s blindingly obvious, and I’m sure even the Police have a great enough cognitive function between all of them to be able to track your _partner-napper_. So, why did you come to me?” Sherlock’s voice was as cool and crisp as usual, as he sat with his hands steepled under his chin.

The woman looked a little dazed by Sherlock’s response to her well gathered evidence but answered on in the same hesitant voice, “Because the kidnapper left a note, Mr Holmes, and it’s addressed to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at this as she passed the crumpled that was on her lap over to him. As soon as he glanced at the handwriting his suspicions were confirmed. He knew exactly who this was. A red hot hand of anger gripped at his insides.

Unfolding the paper with agile fingers Sherlock quickly read through the note before passing it to John. The content was a riddle, which went as follows:

_An Atlantic education,_

_I travel far and deep,_

_A rouge of painted ladies,_

_Describe my dangerous streak._

_In water coloured silver,_

_And in danger coloured roux,_

_Solve this riddle, Mr Holmes,_

_And the answer will come to you._

_“_ A riddle?” John said, frowning and looking up at Sherlock, who finally made eye contact with him, looking serious and…almost angry. “’and the answer will come to you’….will this tell us where they’ve taken Michael?”

“With a bit of luck.” Sherlock replied, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. John could see what he’d seen a month ago in Sherlock’s eyes, and knew this could only be one person. _That bastard_. He stared at Sherlock to clarify this, and the small imperceptible nod that Sherlock gave was enough to know John was not mistaken.

“What does it mean?” John asked, as the young woman looked between the both of them, like a spectator at a tennis match. “The riddle, can you solve it?”

Sherlock looked away, looked at the fruit bowl holding ripe red apples. “I’ve never liked riddles…” He muttered under his breath, seemingly lost in thought before returning his gaze to John and continuing in his usual clear voice. “Of course I can, John, what do you take me for?”

John smirked at him slightly, trying to lighten the mood, before handing him the riddle. Sherlock didn’t even look at it, obviously he already had his solution from the first read.

“The answer is a red herring.” He stated, and at this the young woman looked up suddenly.

“Red Herring? That’s the bookshop that my father owns.”

John chuckled slightly. “Strange name for a bookshop.”

“My father used to be a fisherman,” the woman explained, “that’s why it’s called ‘Herring’. The ‘Red’ is because practically everyone in our family has red hair.” John nodded his understanding.

“How did you know that?” He asked of Sherlock. John, despite what he said, was not very good at riddles, and was a little stumped by this one.

“Herrings are found mainly in the Atlantic Ocean,” Sherlock explained, “And they travel in schools, hence the ‘education’. Their scales are silver in colour. The ‘red’ part of the answer I gathered from the ‘rouge’ and ‘roux’ elements of the riddle. Both of these words, in French, translate to ‘red’. Not particularly challenging.” Sherlock said with a raise of his eyebrow. John once again nodded his understanding.

“So….” The woman said after a moment’s silence, pulling Sherlock from his thoughts. “What do we do now?”

“We go to this bookshop of your father’s and see if we find anything.” Sherlock stated with finality, rising from his chair.

                                                                                     ***

As they were leaving, and the woman, Audrey, they had discovered after realising they had not asked, had  gone on ahead to hail a cab, Sherlock turned to John with a sincere expression on his face, and his teeth were clenched in what almost looked like discomfort.

“Something doesn’t feel right, John. About this.”

John frowned. “It’s him isn’t it.”

Sherlock looked as if he was going to snarl. “Yes.”

“Hey, Sherlock, don’t do anything stupid, alright? Keep calm.” John warned, noting the dangerous glint in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock just stared at him for a second before rolling his eyes and snorting, following Audrey out into the street.

                                                                                 ***

The Red Herring bookshop was an oddity that John had always associated  with bumbly old men and dust. The outside was just as shabby as the inside, with paint chipping off the walls and the old mahogany bookcases brimming with books, performing as a strange, dense forest to block out any light that could be coming from the outside window. Upon entrance, Sherlock pulled out a torch and shone it upon the surfaces surrounding them, casting shadows so eerie John wouldn’t have been surprised if some grotesque spectre had swooped down on them.

“Hello?” Sherlock called out into the dank air. No reply came, only a buzzing silence.

“Dad?” Audrey tried, looking fearful between John and Sherlock, “It’s me, Audrey.”

Yet again there was no reply, and so the trio travelled further into the shop. John was lamenting the fact he hadn’t brought his gun along for this adventure. The catacombs of bookshelves seemed to go on for miles, and the claustrophobic narrowness of the shop was making a quick escape, if one was needed, very difficult. It wasn’t until they rounded a corner, the crevice of which was filled with an enormous globe of the World, that they came upon something. Or rather, someone.

As soon as the light of Sherlock’s torch shone upon the lump on the ground Audrey gave a hollow scream, propelling herself toward the body of her father. The man in question was lying on his flabby stomach, face turned to the side and pale eyes unseeing. In his back were stuck three knives, trailing down as though they were a dragon’s spikes. Strangely though, there was also a bullet hole to the temple, as if the disgusting act of the knives hadn’t been enough to kill this man. Sherlock had seen this before. Moran’s cruel game continued.

“Father!” Audrey screamed, raw emotion pouring from her lips. She shook him a few times, and as she did a white piece of card fell from her father’s limp fingers. Sherlock swiftly bent down to pick it up, as John went to console the weeping woman. Shining his light upon it, a closer inspection confirmed Sherlock’s suspicion as he stared down at another white spider. On its back, in the same hand as that of the riddle, there was a message.  ‘ **Red Herring. I knew you’d get it, Mr Holmes, but did you _really_ get it?** ’

Frowning, Sherlock turned the origami spider over to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, and when he was sure he hadn’t his mind turned to the meaning of the message. Moran was playing a game with him again, that was certain, and the recently healed scar on his back gave a painful twinge, a physical reminder of all that the man had done and how much Sherlock loathed him. Did he _really_ get it? Was there something he had missed? He might have; his mind in the cab on the way to the bookshop had solely been on how much Sherlock longed to bring Moran’s schemes to an abrupt end, how it might help put the demons of his past away once and for all. It irritated him to no end; that he couldn’t focus solely on a case, putting all other thoughts to the back of his mind. But then Moran was no  normal case.

Suddenly the solution, like a bolt of lightening, hit Sherlock and he reeled backwards slightly, causing John to shoot him a confused look as he stood by the weeping girl, who had backed up against the globe, shaking her head in denial.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked, coming forward. Sherlock shook his head, utter surprise at his lack of observance. Moran was testing him, throwing him off. And there may yet be consequences.

“The Red Herring, John….” He muttered, “’And in danger coloured roux’. It wasn’t just the clue of the bookshop, John, it was a warning. I knew there was something off about all this. The red herring _was_ a red herring.” He started looking around manically, and suddenly the two of them realised that Audrey was gone, the globe cracked open at the Equator. Sherlock rushed over to the globe, obviously searching for something.

“Sherlock, what-“

“John, “Sherlock sounded panicked, voice terse, “Get out.”

“What?”

“The globe John, it’s a bomb!” Sherlock turned to give John a clear shot of the open casket of the globe, and the bomb that resided inside, the countdown showing they only had ten seconds to vacate the shop.

“Oh shi-“

“John, go!” Sherlock grabbed John’s armed and pulled him forward as the countdown continued. John could hear Sherlock’s quick footsteps behind his own and they wound through the maze that was the forest of books. Hearts pounding, adrenaline kicking in.

They pelted through the door  as a double bleep came from behind them, signalling the bomb’s imminent explosion. John couldn’t be sure, but by god he hoped he was, but he thought he could hear Sherlock steps behind his as the bookshop flew apart in flame and fire.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven:**

Greg Lestrade knew that a quiet morning at the office would be too much to ask for. Especially when he had a slight hangover and all he wanted to do was slump in his office chair and work his way through a packet of doughnuts. But no, of course he couldn’t have that, could he?

“Sir, there’s been an explosion at a bookshop in Islington. The fire department is already on their way.” Donovan informed him after knocking and entering, leaning slightly on the doorframe.

Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and sucking in a large breath. No rest for the wicked.

                                                                                ***

It was much like the scene had been all those years ago when the flat opposite 221B had exploded; the whole front of the shop was in smoking tatters, flames dancing a mocking dance that was soon disrupted by the gallons of water the fire department was spraying at them. Debris and singed book pages littered the streets, whilst the flashing of police and ambulance sirens gave the scene a blue tinged look.

Lestrade pushed himself under the police tape, surveying the scene and pretending he was focussed. Donovan followed on behind him as he came to rest by one of the flashing police cars, rolling out facts about leads they had and witness statements.

“Were there any casualties?” He asked, cutting her off.

“Two, sir, that we know of; one seems coherent enough, only sustaining a few minor cuts and bruises, and the other is slightly dazed, from the impact.”

Lestrade nodded, grateful that no one had wound up dead. Yet. They had still to search the wreckage. “Okay, make sure to get a statement from one of them, presumably the more coherent one.”

She nodded, a slight smirk gracing her lips, and ran off to a nearby ambulance. Lestrade surveyed the wreckage, watching bomb disposal make sure there were no more explosions that would detonate. The police tape had been put at a safe area, so that if another bomb were to go off there wouldn’t be anymore casualties. God knows they didn’t need that.

“Sir!” Sally’s voice called to him from the ambulance, the blur lights highlighting the curly wisps of her hair. She was beckoning him over with a hand, looking urgent. Lestrade walked as fast as he could to her, his hangover playing havoc with his ability to move quickly.

“What?” He asked her, shrugging as he reached her.

 Donovan’s face was a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “He won’t give me his statement sir, says-well, he won’t speak to _me_.”

Greg frowned. “What? Who?”  She thrust her thumbs over her shoulder to where the back doors of the ambulance were swung open, watching his face for his reaction. Greg peered around curiously, and what he saw really didn’t surprise him.

“Oh, for god’s sake!”

“Greg,” John nodded from where he was sat perched on the edge of the ambulance, looking no worse for wear apart from a few minor cuts and bruises on his face. Greg ran a hand over his face.

“I should have known.”

John gave him a shrug, “In our defence we didn’t know, not even Sherlock realised until the last minute- hell, the last _ten seconds_.”

Greg sighed heavily, “Where is he?” He asked wearily.

John nodded inside the ambulance, and Greg jumped as he noticed the lanky form of Sherlock Holmes being forcibly pushed back onto the stretcher by a paramedic, eyes slightly foggy, trying his best not to sit down. Greg looked back to John again, the pressure of his headache building behind his eyes like a tsunami.

John cleared his throat, “He’s slightly dazed, but he should be fine, just gotta keep an eye on him. It was miracle we weren’t more seriously injured.” He averted his eyes from Greg then, looking concerned, and Greg got the idea that, once again, he and Sherlock were hiding something.

 _‘Well let them have their little secrets’_ , he thought, too tired to get it out of John, one of the most resilient man he knew (the other being Sherlock).

“Right, well, I’ll have to get a statement off you but if he’s cleared to go home then I think that’s probably a priority, yeah?” Greg’s voice was rough, and he was gasping for a cigarette.

John nodded his agreement, getting up stiffly. Greg guessed he’d probably been thrown forward by the blast, presumably onto the hard concrete. “Yeah, better to get him home now before he starts getting really irritated.”

They both shared a small chuckle at Sherlock’s expense, but that nagging worries look would not leave John’s eyes.

“I’ll get your statement off you later, yeah?” John asked warmly, giving John a friendly smile, “And Sherlock’s too, if he’s up to it…..glad you guys are okay.” He added as an afterthought, and he could see the appreciation in John’s eyes.

“Thanks, Greg.”

“No worries mate.”

                                                                                    ***

Getting Sherlock back to Baker Street was, quite surprisingly, rather easy. By the time they had gotten him into the back of Greg’s car, who had kindly offered them a lift, the blinding headache Sherlock would receive as an after effect of being thrown back by the blast onto the pavement had set in, and the man spent the entire journey laid back with his eyes tightly shut, one arm thrown dramatically across his eyes and the other over his stomach, fingers fiddling with his coat sleeve. John, the doctor he was, could tell Sherlock was feeling the pain of the impact he’d made with the concrete. Hell, John certainly was, and he’d been further from the building than Sherlock when the bomb had detonated, though it had been enough to daze him for a few moments, and when he came to people had already rushed out on the street, ambulance and fire department were already phoned, and Sherlock had been lying on the street. John still felt the pang of worry working over in his gut, that along with the complete shock of them almost being blown up. _Again_.

Though, technically, John couldn’t blame Sherlock for this, as the other man had had no idea about the bomb until it was almost too late. At least John had him to thank for his continuing existence on the earth.

Greg’s car pulled up in front of Baker Street just as a thorough downpour started, and John got more than a little bit wet running from his seat round to the pavement to open the door for Sherlock, who gingerly got out with John’s hand on his arm helping him. Greg himself insisted on coming in with them to make sure they were okay and to get a statement from John.

John got even wetter fumbling with his keys as they stood on the doorstep, Sherlock with his head down and hands stuffed in his pockets. He had been strangely quiet, and it was making John even more worried. Finally, they key found the lock and they were let into the warm entrance of Baker Street, John and Greg immediately shrugging off their dripping coats, whilst Sherlock made his steady way up the stairs. John hastened to follow behind him, just to make sure that he wouldn’t slip; just being cautious.  

They were greeted in 221B by the crackling of a fire as flames danced in the grate. John swallowed, remembering the flames that had erupted from the bookshop. Sherlock immediately went to his chair, slumping down in it, head in hands and shaking slightly.

“Greg…” John said, observing Sherlock’s pale figure from the doorway, “Could you put the kettle on please?” Greg, getting the hint, headed for the kitchen.

John approached Sherlock’s chair and put a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock? I need to know if the explosion damaged any of your….previous injuries.” He spoke quietly, hoping Greg would not hear him over all the noise he was making in the kitchen, fumbling around for tea bags.

Sherlock looked up at John then, eyes less clouded but with a pained intensity John knew was intense concentration. Of thought or of trying to block out the pain John had no idea. He shook his head carefully, then rested his hands under his chin and stared straight ahead; not meeting John’s questioning eyes. John sighed and went to his chair slumping in it, sighing heavily. “I’ll get you some painkillers when I have a mo.” Sherlock just continued staring.

Greg returned from the kitchen a moment later, carrying a tray with three cups of tea on it. He passed one to Sherlock who took without looking his way, the one to John before placing the tray with his cup on it on the coffee table, and then settled himself on one of the desk chairs, pulling out a notepad and pen as he did so. John took a sip of his own tea, the warm liquid comforting and familiar, before leaning forward in his own chair.

“John, could I have your account of the events of this morning?” Greg asked.

John recounted the events of that morning; the woman on the door step, the riddle, the bookshop and then the explosion. He omitted the bit about the whole thing being a set up by Moran, and Sherlock glanced at him for second; the only thanks John would be getting.

“So, you don’t have any idea who might have done this?” Greg asked him once he was finished.

John shook his head firmly, “No, the riddle came with no clue as to who wrote it, and unfortunately Audrey still had it on her person when the building exploded.”

“And you’ve no idea where she went? Could she have been blown up by the bomb?” Greg asked; worry entering his voice in the form of quivering tones. They didn’t need a dead civilian on their hands.

At that moment Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, and finally he broke from his thoughts and turned to Lestrade, although somewhat stiffly, wincing ever so slightly against the raging headache he was trying his best to forget about.

“Of course she’s still alive, Lestrade, she was in on the whole thing.”

“Really?” both John and Lestrade said in unison.

Sherlock just sighed in exasperation at this. “Yes, of course. She was hired by whoever our bomber was in order to lure me into the bookshop.”

“What, to kill you?” Greg asked uneasily, writing Sherlock’s revelation down.

Sherlock scoffed, “No, in order to warn me.”

“Warn you of what?” Greg asked, but Sherlock pretended not to hear, sipping on his tea, which was doing miracles for his composure, whilst John gave him a sideways look, picking up on what Sherlock was cryptically saying; Moran was back, and this time he wasn’t playing any games.

Just at that moment there was a tremendous amount of clattering downstairs as Mrs Hudson let in a frantic voice, which was followed by frantic footsteps on the stairs, and which ended in a frantic Mary rushing into the room, scarf half-hanging off her body and hair sticking to a pale and anxious face with rain.

“John, oh god, are you okay?” She asked. John immediately got up out of his seat, regretting it a little as his abused body groaned in protest, and pulled her into a tight embrace. He had sent her a quick text on the way to Baker Street, and of course she would probably have heard it on the local radio at work; she’d probably rushed straight from there.

“We’re fine” he muttered quietly, breathing her scent; Claire de la Lune. “Just slightly bashed up, but nothing I can’t handle.” She pulled away from him, checking him over herself before giving him a brief but passionate kiss. Greg cleared his throat slightly and Sherlock continued sipping his tea.

Mrs Hudson had followed Mary up, waving her hands around as she headed for the kitchen. “You and your bleeding bombs, Sherlock! You and John could have got seriously hurt!” She fumbled around in a cupboard for a moment before pulling out a packet of crumpets.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, not sticking up for himself. “Actually he didn’t know about it this time, Mrs Hudson.” John replied, arm wrapped around Mary’s waist. “He managed to get us out in time by figuring out that there actually _was_ a bomb.”

Mrs Hudson froze for a moment before a screen of guilt came over her face and she rushed over to Sherlock and pulled him into a sharp hug. Sherlock had to brace himself in his seat, trying to stop his tree from sloshing out of his cup whilst trying to prevent some of his bruises from getting pressed upon by Mrs Hudson’s hug.

“Oh, Sherlock…” She whispered. He just rolled his eyes. John huffed in amusement. God he was glad Sherlock was okay. Mary rubbed his arm with her hand soothingly.

“Well this is all very delightful, isn’t it Sherlock?” came a voice from the doorway, and everyone bar Sherlock jumped as the looming figure of Mycroft Holmes entered the room, umbrella swinging and his usual unsettling smile on his face. Mrs Hudson pulled back from a ruffled and irritated looking Sherlock. His brow was tense; a sure sign to John that his headache was raging on. He would have to get him some painkillers as soon as possible.

“Hello Mycroft dear,” She said, “Would you like a crumpet? I’m just doing some for the boys; they’ve had a dreadful morning.”

Mycroft waved away her offer, staring intently at his brother, deducing away. “I have been informed. Has it been quite a _blast_ for you, brother mine?”

Sherlock raised one contemptuous eyebrow and resumed his tea sipping.

“John.” Mycroft nodded at John, and the two men shared a look. Mary kissed John on the cheek once more and went to help Mrs Hudson in the kitchen, though there was nothing really to do.

John coughed into the awkward silence that ensued as Mycroft settled himself in John’s chair whilst Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes, tea cup now settled in his lap. Greg’s eyes flicked from one brother to the other, before he flipped his notepad closed and stood from the chair, stretching himself out.

“Well I think I have most of what is needed, John,” that was not true, John knew, but he could see the man was eager to leave what was a sibling stare-off (or not-stare-off in Sherlock’s opinion). “I’ll keep you updated”

“Yeah, cheers Greg.” John nodded as Lestrade let himself out, footsteps thundering on the creaky stairs.  John flexed his fists for a moment, listening to the sounds of Mrs Hudson and Mary milling around in the kitchen.

Finally, Mycroft broke the spell of silence, “It was Moran, I assume.”

“You assume correct.” Sherlock’s voice was as baritone as ever, but there was certain croak to it that spoke of his headache, and undertones of anger were very evident. Mycroft hummed, watching his younger brother carefully. John decided to leave them to it, heading to the medicine cabinet to get Sherlock those painkillers.

When he returned it seemed that Mycroft had gotten Sherlock to engage in a full flowing statement, and the younger brother was streaming facts at the older. “’ _An Atlantic education’_ coupled with ‘ _in water coloured silver’_ of course it was herring; the fish travel in schools, and have a particular silver to their gills.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Father’s fishing enthusiasm certainly had an impact on you.”

“My mind palace refuses to delete such torture.” Both Mycroft and John stilled at Sherlock’s dark joke, and it took a moment for John to compose himself before he felt he could approach Sherlock, passing him two tablets and a glass of water.

“That’s all you’re getting.”

Sherlock swallowed them down, “Thank you, John.”

“So,” Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella against the ground. “I assume Moran has returned once again, and with no good tidings.”

Sherlock clenches his hands on the arms of his chair. “Once again, you assume correct.” The anger was creeping back into his voice.

“Then I suggest we have a plan, don’t you?” Mycroft asked, as though he were asking Sherlock if he’d seen the TV remote. The brothers shared a glance, a secretive glance that left John confused.

And so, that afternoon, the brother’s Holmes, John and Mary came up with a plan to deal with Moran, munching on crumpets as though it were a tea party.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!   
> Tumblr blog: thebritishbourbon.tumblr.com


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